


The Art of Observation

by TheSilverQueen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Hannibal Likes It, Angry Will Graham, Choking, Collars, Dom Will Graham, Don't copy to another site, Dubious Consent, M/M, Murder, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Spanking, Sub Hannibal Lecter, Sub Hannibal Week, Will tortures Hannibal using Anthony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: When Will is angry about Hannibal casually offing Professor Sogliato during dinner, Hannibal says he didn't ask for Will's input because Will only ever observes. So Will, of course, sets out to prove Hannibal wrong. "Let me show you what meobserving thingslooks like, Hannibal."
Relationships: Anthony Dimmond/Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 149
Collections: Sub Hannibal Week 2020





	The Art of Observation

**Author's Note:**

> This is my (belated) entry to [Sub Hannibal Week!](https://twitter.com/SubHannibal/status/1284497610959708160) Enjoy Will being mad at Hannibal and using Anthony to punish Hannibal until he apologizes/cries.
> 
> Warnings: Let's be real, Hannibal is probably 1000% down for whatever Will wants, but he does not know about, consent to, or get to say no to all the stuff Will does to him, so there's that. Anthony also has no idea what's going on.
> 
> Also the events of S03E01 are .... rearranged in this fic? Like I am pretending that Anthony has never met Will or Hannibal until Will sidles up in the bar. Oh and Will totally ran away with Hannibal at the end of S2. (i was tired and thought this fic would only be 5k and be posted last week okay)

When Hannibal shoves an ice pick into Professor Sogliato’s head, Will is not terribly surprised, to be honest. Now that he can see Hannibal – truly, actually, fully see Hannibal, the monster and the myth and the man – it’s easy for Will to see the duality of him. He is calm and patient and clever, and he is restless and impulsive and stupid. He twitches when he wants Will to touch him, and he twitches when he wants to break someone’s neck. He fingers fine knives and cradles wine glasses when he wants feed Will the best food, and he fingers those same knives and cradles those same glasses when he wants to make food out of someone for Will. 

Will isn’t terribly bothered by these impulses. Hannibal has been killing far longer than Will has been diving headfirst into the minds of killers; if Will still has the temptation to look someone in the eye and suss out their deepest, darkest secrets, he can see that Hannibal would also have the temptation to look someone in the eye and gut them, and Will’s been suppressing his temptation a lot longer than Hannibal.

That being said, Will still can’t let such blatant disrespect stand, either. There had been an unspoken agreement between them, when they’d fled America and left their old lives behind, bodies discarded like old clothes and friendships severed like dangerous limbs, but it had been no less important and powerful than the bloody agreement to leave everything and everyone behind.

Or so Will had thought anyways. 

Then again, sometimes, even with all of Will’s knowledge and intuition, he cannot truly predict Hannibal, and honestly, Professor Sogliato had been quickly earning a spot on Will’s naughty list. 

But examples must be made, lessons must be taught. Will learned long ago that if a dog misbehaves, you correct it the first time or give up on the whole endeavor altogether. So he looks Hannibal in the eye, tilts his head, smiles as sweet as pie, like he used to smile when Jack asked him what was wrong, and says, “What the goddamn hell do you think you’re doing?”

* * *

In the orphanage, Hannibal learned to hone his senses, to listen and see and smell, to take in as much sensory input as possible. In medical school, Hannibal learned to take that sensory input and fit it into neat little boxes, like diagnoses and treatments. And in the operating room, under the glaring white lights and suffocating disinfectant, Hannibal learned to expand his volume of input, to listen to a dozen people talking and many hands moving and machines beeping without being overloaded until he froze up. All of this training has come in handy during Hannibal’s many, many kills, and yet, even after so many years, he freezes when Will’s soft little band of nine words reach his ears.

Freezes with fingers still on the ice pick, like a naughty boy with fingers in the cookie jar.

It’s embarrassing.

Hannibal clears his throat and lowers his fingers. Slowly, he steps away, one foot and then another, until Sogliato’s brain finally registers that something isn’t quite right, and his sneering smile transforms into an uncertain mask, hiccups emerging from his mouth. It’s hardly as quick a death as Hannibal normally deals when he kills outside of the safety of his lair, still wrapped in his daytime sheep skin, and it will certainly be messier than Hannibal normally does.

“That may,” Hannibal says slowly, the only response he can think to offer, “have been impulsive.”

Will takes another sip of his drink, slow and steady, like nothing has happened. “Impulsive,” he repeats flatly. He sets his drink down and leans backwards, wiping his hands on his napkin. “No, Hannibal, _impulsive_ is when you go shopping for milk and come home with steak and truffles and wine. This is not impulsive.”

Sogliato chooses that moment to burst into giggles. They are pained and somewhat hysterical, and Hannibal only wishes he had stabbed a little lower, so that Sogliato might know what was happening to him. After all, there are only so many insults a man can tolerate towards his beloved.

Will pushes his chair back. Napkin in hand, he approaches Sogliato and wraps his protected hand firmly around the ice pick. He yanks it out in one swift movement, as a fisherman pulls a hook from a fish’s mouth, and watches impassively as Sogliato falls forward onto his plate, blood streaming around him like the finest red sauce, fingers still twitching, Italian words lost to mumbles and giggles. 

It’s a quicker death than Hannibal would have given him, to be sure. 

“Technically,” Hannibal ventures into the silence that has fallen, “you killed him.”

Will rounds on him immediately. The impassivity is gone now, wiped clean from the earth like a storm has washed it all away, replaced by the fire of a soon to erupt volcano. Hannibal imagines that he were to touch his beloved now, he might be burned as if he had placed his fingers on a hot stove, such is the anger and rage.

“There is no technically between us,” Will grounds out, advancing with every single word, the icepick in one hand and a knife in the other. “Your crimes are my crimes, or have you forgotten?”

Hannibal wets his lips. In truth, Hannibal had not been sure, for Will has often been eager to dawn the sheepskin of the innocent and the just. Even when he shot Hobbs, even when he admitted to Hannibal why he had done so, he had still presented to the world the face of a man who had done so only to protect others, in the name of justice and peace and the law. Even now, sometimes, Hannibal wakes and wonders if today, perhaps, will be the day that Will gives in and calls Jack and sends him back to America to live out his days in a padded cell like an insect under the microscope.

“If Uncle Jack were to come calling,” Hannibal says, because it is no lie and Hannibal will not lie to Will, “he might be content to consider these crimes my handiwork, and you as the unwilling accomplice.”

Immediately, Hannibal knows he has said the wrong thing. The anger dies away, burning rage cooling – and then going straight past cool and into frigid impassivity, the volcano buried under ice and snow within seconds. Will straightens to his full height, shoulders back and eyes hard, and _looks_ at him with disapproval that cuts like a sharp knife, so fine that the brain only registers the pain minutes afterwards.

“And so you, what, wanted to give me a chance to claim Stockholm syndrome?”

“It is not uncommon,” Hannibal notes. “A victim who capture bonds is more likely to survive.”

“Is that what I am to you? Your victim?” Will shakes his head, sharply, cutting off any attempt at a response. For some reason, now he seems unbearably amused, as though he has put together a very strange puzzle and now realizes that sharp edges and sharper corners concealed a great big joke. “Nice try, Hannibal. You wanted to see what would happen, didn’t you? Testing, poking, prodding – because that’s what you do.”

It’s not . . . exactly the response Hannibal expected. “You have never seen me kill before.”

“If it was your intent to get me used to you murdering people, this was a pretty rude way of introducing it,” Will shoots back. “Forcing me to participate without prior warning or consent – pretty sure that’s unethical. And rude.”

“You could have merely observed.”

“Is that what you really want? Me to just _observe_?”

“It is all you’ve done in the past.” 

Hannibal does not mean it as insult – in fact, he makes sure to keep his voice even and his face impassive as he says it – but truths sometimes sting deeper than lies. After all, it was Will who watched as Hannibal pushed a blade deep into Jack, and Will who watched as Hannibal walked right past a dying Alana, and Will who watched as Hannibal disposed of Bedelia and helped himself to her accounts. In some ways, a part of Hannibal is still disappointed at Will’s observation-only stance, even if he is truly delighted to have Will at all.

The amusement grows to a boil, and Will laughs. “You think _that_ was mere observation? Oh, Hannibal,” he says, voice edged with the same pity Hannibal himself once felt, watching the FBI scramble in circles to try and find him. 

It leaves Hannibal feeling strangely off-kilter, for he has never sought Will’s pity, not even when he still pretended to be a sheep. Hannibal has always aspired to provoke respect and fear, for what use is pity? “Will – ”

Will holds up a hand. “Not another word from you,” he warns. “You’ll only dig a bigger hole for yourself, and honestly I’m mad enough as it is. Turn around and face the wall, Hannibal.”

“Will – ”

“I said, turn around and face the wall. Don’t make me tell you three times.”

It’s not a very difficult request and Will still holds the bloody ice pick, so Hannibal weighs his choices before he pivots on his feet and faces the wall. It’s not a terrible view, given the large window next to the wall, but given that Hannibal can clearly hear Will moving things around behind him, he tires of the view very quickly. He would rather watch Will doing mundane tasks like reading a book or walking up the stairs than watch an entire party on the streets below.

There is a rather large thud, like a body being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor, and Hannibal tilts his head to take in Will’s grunts as he hauls Professor Sogliato . . . somewhere. His best guess is the bathroom, although he could be wrong; the apartment is very well sound-proofed.

When Will returns, he sets about cleaning the table; Hannibal can hear the distinctive clinking of silverware and plates as he stands staring at the wall like a child sent to time out for a tantrum.

Hannibal clears his throat. “Am I being punished, Will?”

There’s a clamor as Will puts a pile of plates into the sink, and then Will’s footsteps come to the table again. “No,” Will says, distantly, as if he is distracted by something. “But you will be.”

Hannibal opens his mouth to respond –

And Will’s foot, sans shoes, strikes the back of his knees, sharp and strong, as if he wants to dislocate Hannibal’s knees altogether. Hannibal breathes through the pain – he would never block out anything his beloved bestowed upon him – and lets himself drop to his knees, only barely catching himself from smashing headlong into the wall and breaking his nose. Will assists in this matter by putting his arm around Hannibal’s throat, pulling him backward, but then his other hand curls over his fist, and Hannibal realizes his intent. 

He wants to choke Hannibal out.

A dozen escape plans flash through Hannibal’s mind, each discarded in a millisecond. He has no leverage to stand up, for Will is currently stepping on his legs; he cannot drop his deadweight to force Will to loosen his hold, for Will would simply press his weight into the wall; he cannot throw Will over his shoulder, for he has no room given the wall in front of him. It almost makes Hannibal smile – he is sure his clever mongoose forced him to stand against the wall for exactly these reasons.

He lets his hands go loose and drop away from Will’s arm. He hadn’t been trying to pull Will’s arm away, but Hannibal would rather go to unconsciousness with his head held high, not scratching at Will’s arms and bleating like a sheep.

If Will wishes to kill him, right now, he will have to do so knowing that he cannot claim self-defense.

Darkness creeps into the edges of Hannibal’s vision, joining the spots that are already dancing through his eyes. Will tightens his hold, like a constricting snake, and rests his head next to Hannibal’s to make it even tighter.

As Hannibal gives into the sweet call of oblivion, he faintly hears Will say, “Let me show you what me _observing things_ looks like, Hannibal.”

And Hannibal smiles, and passes out.

* * *

Hannibal comes awake with a gasp. He has always been quick riser, either from strange sounds in his house or pages in the hospital, and those skills never left him. In this case, though, he does not wake due to any sound.

No, he is awake because someone threw a cup of ice cold water at him.

Hannibal shakes his head, just to get the stray strands of hair out of the way, and blinks the droplets out of his eyes. Will stands in front of him, a mug in one hand and a knotted tie in the other, and there is a strange, contemplative look upon his face. Hannibal looks from the mug to the growing stain on the floor and raises an eyebrow.

Will shrugs. “I thought about slapping you,” he says, “but you did want me to only observe. This is the most . . . removed method of waking someone.”

Hannibal almost snorts at that. There are two phones in the room that Will could have used as alarms, for example, or Will could have called his name, or Will could have waited for Hannibal to come around himself. It is a far more likely conclusion that Will remembered that Hannibal dislikes the cold and decided, in his petulant cruelty, to use that.

Hannibal opens his mouth, mostly because more information will help him figure out what Will is planning, but Will says, “Yeah, I don’t think so,” and stuffs the knotted tie in his mouth, securing it between Hannibal’s head in three quick movements.

This is when Hannibal realizes that he is not exactly in the same condition as he was when Will throttled him to unconsciousness.

Firstly, he has been divested of all clothing. Hannibal blinks at that, for he is sure he would have noticed; it takes a great deal of time and effort to strip someone who is not awake to assist. Secondly, when he tries to move his arms, he realizes that they have been bound behind his neck, elbow to elbow, although where Will got the rope he has no idea. Thirdly, when he swallows to try and deal with all the saliva accumulating around the knotted tie, there is pressure at his throat.

Will tilts his head and smiles, and then steps neatly to the side, allowing Hannibal to glimpse himself in the mirror.

There is a _collar_ around Hannibal’s throat, a belt cut to the right length and buckled as if Hannibal were a stray mutt, and fastened so tightly that Hannibal cannot quite breathe deep enough to fill his lungs. 

Not like a naughty child, Hannibal realizes, suddenly and immediately. Will is treating him like a naughty _dog_.

As if he can read Hannibal’s mind – and he likely can, for Hannibal is making no attempt to hide the emotions on his face – Will sets the mug down on the bureau and says, “If you’re going to act like you have no self-control, like an animal, then I’ll treat you like one. Don’t worry; you’re not feral enough for a straightjacket yet.”

Hannibal settles back on his haunches. It’s hardly comfortable, but at least there is a rug beneath his knees and the air is not so cold that he is shivering. 

“Now then,” Will continues, “you promised that we were equals, now, and yet there you go, slaughtering a pig on – what did you call it? Ah yes, impulse. Personally, I think it’s been too long since you were reminded what it’s like to answer to someone else, Hannibal. But you do answer to me now. Because if you don’t, I will turn around and walk right out of here, Hannibal, and you will never see me again, because I will make sure that wherever they imprison you, I am on the opposite side of the world. Are we clear?”

Hannibal lowers his gaze to the ground and nods. Without speech, it’s the closest way he can convey his acceptance.

Will lets that threat simmer in the air, just long enough for Hannibal to grow uncomfortable, and then he breathes out and relaxes. 

“Good,” he says softly. “So we are on the same page about that, at least.” He taps a finger on the bureau, once, twice, and then goes still. “But.” _Tap, tap._ “That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what you did during dinner, or that you’re forgiven for it. So. I’m going to go out, and I’m going to enjoy hunting myself, and meanwhile you’re going to kneel there and wait for me. I’ll do you the favor of telling you in advance, even though you so rudely did not for me.”

Indignation and joy well up in Hannibal’s breast in equal measure. On one hand, the idea of waiting like a dog for Will to return irritates Hannibal on an instinctive level, as he has not answered to anyone – not even God, if he exists – in years. The irritation is further compounded by the fact that Will would leave Hannibal hobbled and muzzled, and with no idea how long he must wait.

On the other hand, the idea of waiting for his beloved to return with blood on his hands and fire in his eyes is _delectable_.

Hannibal tries to speak, and then remembers he is gagged when only muffled sounds emerge. Will’s eyes crinkle in amusement. He even cups his hand around his ear, the picture of polite confusion and encouragement, as though he is not the one who choked Hannibal and stripped him and shoved what appears to be Hannibal’s own tie into his mouth to stopper his words. 

Well, if that is how Will wishes to play the game.

Hannibal straightens, lifting his head and rolling his shoulders back, settling firmly on his knees. He can’t resist the urge to spread them, just a tiny bit, mostly to better support his weight but more importantly so that Will’s eyes are drawn there. They’ve not yet consummated their relationship, of course, and Hannibal isn’t sure if it’s because Will is still getting used to the idea of, well, them or if it’s because Will has only welcomed those of the fairer sex into his bed, but that does not mean he has missed the lingering glances whenever Hannibal is getting dressed or emerging after a shower. After all, Hannibal has sent many a glance of his own during those same times. 

He gives Will a firm, polite nod, like he did to confirm their appointments so long ago, as though they are reclining in comfort in his office and standing together as equals.

It appears to satisfy Will, regardless. That or he wishes to begin his hunt now, and not be tempted to remain and tease Hannibal further. He gives Hannibal a slow nod of his own and an even slower sweep from head to knees with his eyes, and then he abruptly turns on his heel and marches out the door. He is dressed casually, Hannibal notes, warm and comfortable clothing, good for hunting. 

Hannibal closes his eyes and listen as Will gathers up his things – a whisper of his coat off the rack, the clink of keys from the bowl by the entrance, the muted squeak of toes squeezing into shoes. The door clicks open, footsteps walk out, and the door clicks shut. 

For a moment, Hannibal thinks that Will is not going to lock their door, to throw everything to chance, but then he hears the keys rattling in the lock before Will strides away.

Hannibal takes a deep breath – or as deep as he can, given the tight collar and restriction of his arms – and begins to think. He takes a quick stock of himself again, now that Will is gone and Hannibal can truly explore without Will’s judgement or mockery. His arms are bound securely, enough that Hannibal knows he will not be able to escape without assistance from a person or sharp edge, and he makes note of the necessary implements he can reach in the bedroom, if he needs to. He works at the knotted tie in his mouth too, testing the strength of the knot, and concludes that he will needs his hands free for that as well. He looks around, but there is no sign of the clothing he was wearing, and Hannibal gives himself a brief moment to mourn the loss of his clothing. Will can be quite . . . destructive, when pushed, and Hannibal would not think it beyond Will to have destroyed Hannibal’s clothing along with Sogliato. 

With all of that catalogued, Hannibal closes his eyes and settles in for the wait. He has waited for very long periods of time in very uncomfortable positions before, and for far less rewarding circumstances than beautiful, glorious, wrathful Will. 

The only thing he could complain about, perhaps, would be the icy water still dripping off his face. 

Hannibal eyes the sheets of the bed next to him and wonders if it would be below his dignity to rub his face dry. Then he wonders if, perhaps, Will has left a camera to monitor Will, and concludes that the risk is too much, so he just sighs, leans back on his knees, and sinks into his mind palace.

Only the foyer, though. He wouldn’t dream of going so deep that he missed Will’s return.

* * *

The sun sinks fully below the horizon, and the moon begins a steady ascent across the sky. The water grows colder still, and dries so slowly Hannibal wishes he could shake himself like a dog to be dry. His knees begin to ache, and then go numb.

And still, Hannibal waits.

* * *

Hours or minutes later, Hannibal is finally roused when he hears the distinctive turn of the lock. The street outside is almost completely quiet and dark; he is not sure what time it is, but it is very late indeed – or perhaps very early. 

Either way, his attention turns to Will. He strains to listen, to make out if Will is breathing heavily, and to smell, to see if he tastes the coppery scent of shed blood. 

Instead, he hears Will . . . giggle.

There’s no other word for it. Will so rarely laughs, even to preserve the realism of his sheepskin, yet now he laughs high-pitched and freely, like a child creeping into the kitchen late at night behind the back of a parent, certain their sock-covered feet cannot be heard. There’s a thump, as though he has lost his balance and tumbled into a wall, and instead of the delicious scent of blood, Hannibal instead takes in the scent of wine – strong wine – and cologne. 

Cologne that is not Will’s, and too strong to have rubbed off on his skin from someone else.

When there is a second thud, it dawns upon Hannibal that Will is not alone, that Will has brought someone else home, that Will has brought someone who is _alive_ home. 

Hannibal knows a thousand and one ways to kill a person, and yet now, all he wants to do is tear the person’s throat out with his teeth. 

“Shhh,” Will says, but his voice is too loud for the reprimand he is giving. “Shh, wait don’t – ah god – please – ”

A low laugh rings through the apartment, masculine and proud. “Come on, now, Lee,” a man says, soft as though he is whispering a precious secret. “We’re in your apartment now, aren’t we? No one’s going to care what we do here, not if I do this – or this – or maybe . . . this.”

With each word, the man does something, something that makes Will moan loud and long, wanton and shameless. Hannibal imagines this stranger touching Will – learning his sensitive spots, marking Will’s flesh with his teeth, rubbing his spicy cologne onto Will – and sinks his teeth savagely into the tie in his mouth. He takes a great inhale of the cologne, memorizing it, for he has tracked down and killed people with far less information and for far less of an insult than this. 

Will and the stranger kiss, or perhaps they slide their hands beneath their clothing, or perhaps they merely sniff at each other like dogs – either way, for a few blessed moments, there is only silence and Hannibal’s increasingly extravagant meal plans.

Then Will clears his throat, twice, as if trying to make a statement. “Wait, wait,” he says again, laughter clear in his voice. “Wait, Anthony, please. Remember what we discussed?”

Anthony. Priceless. Praiseworthy. Well, he certainly will be, once Hannibal has cut every last scrap of meat off of him.

“I most certainly do,” the stranger says, muffled as though he is mouthing the words against skin. “But, ah, Lee, what kind of feast could possibly outdo the one before me?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“Well, we did just meet two hours ago. But no, I’d say not.”

“Come with me,” Will coaxes, and Hannibal can just imagine how he lures this Anthony forward, with small steps and coy looks and eyes filled with secrets, every inch of him a lure too irresistible to look away from. “I have a _very_ fun plan for us tonight.”

“How thoughtful,” Anthony says, delight ringing in every syllable. “Dare I ask for the privilege to know what you are planning?”

“Wouldn’t it be far more fun for you to find out on your own?”

“It could be, it could be. Very well,” Anthony says. There is a pause, and then Hannibal hears – and feels – the muted sounds of footsteps, rhythmic and perfectly in sync, even though they do not seem to get any closer. Dancing, he quickly realizes; Will and Anthony are dancing. “Will this plan involve . . . less clothing?”

“A lot less.”

“Will this plan involve . . . less speaking?”

“A little less.”

“And lastly, but perhaps most importantly: will this plan involve a great deal more mutual pleasure in return?”

“If you do as I say, good gentleman.”

Anthony laughs, almost as if startled despite himself. The footsteps slow and then stop, and Anthony says, “You are a wonder indeed. I cannot believe that I have had the good fortune of making your acquaintance tonight. So if I am not to know the details of your magical plan, then am I to do exactly as you say, down to the letter?”

“If it’s any comfort,” Will says coyly, “you won’t be alone in that.”

“Oh?”

Will and Anthony round then corner, just then, for Will is a master of timing as well as manipulation, and Hannibal is sure he makes quite the sight – collar wrapped round his throat, arms bound behind his back, tie stuffed in his mouth, naked as the day he was born, kneeling beside the bed like a dog waiting for his master’s return. Yet Hannibal sees no disgust upon this Anthony’s face; instead he sees curiosity, like a cat that has discovered a brand new box and must investigate its contents, and arousal that makes his heart pump and his eyes dilate. 

Of course, Will cannot have chosen Anthony merely for his receptiveness. Hannibal would be hard-pressed to miss the resemblance between the two of them – brown hair, same height and build, similar faces and hands. If they were to swap clothes, they could pass as twins, if they tried.

Yes, Hannibal thinks, Will has chosen well – for both Anthony and for Hannibal, as he no doubt intended.

“This,” Will says, answering the unspoken question as he pats at Anthony’s arm where he has his hand tucked neatly inside like a maiden being escorted, “is my husband. He was rather naughty tonight and had some . . . fun without me. It’s put me in a rather uncomfortable position, to be honest. I was hoping that you might do me the favor of . . . untwisting me. For our mutual benefit, of course.”

Anthony seems to know that there are things Will isn’t saying – Hannibal does not the sharp look he sends Will, nor the quick glance to confirm his position relative to the exit – but Will keeps his face and body open and inviting, and whatever suspicions Anthony has eventually settle back down. He looks at Hannibal, and then at Will, and then at Hannibal again, sweeping his eyes up and down as if he’s cataloging a disputed piece of artwork.

Anthony hums a little. “Is your husband going to participate in this untwisting?”

“Most certainly. It is, after all, his fault. Unless you object?”

Anthony grins widely. He raises their intertwined hands and kisses Will daintily, like a gallant knight. “Hardly. You are both feasts for the eye.”

Still, there is some little hesitation in his voice, as though he is still trying to find the hook in the lure. Will squeezes Anthony’s hand tightly and then breaks away, striding towards Hannibal with determined steps and lowering himself into a crouch. With a small little smile, he grabs Hannibal’s chin and pulls the tie out of Hannibal’s mouth, tossing it carelessly to the ground.

“You agreed you were in the wrong, didn’t you, husband?” Will purrs. “And you’re willing to make it up to me by doing exactly as I say, aren’t you?”

There’s no room for doubt here, no mystery to be unraveled, no wiggle room on the line. Will wants an answer, a very specific one, and that smile promises blood and pain if he refuses, so Hannibal licks at his lips and hoarsely says, “Yes.”

Will releases his chin, still smiling that savage little grin, and rises, patting Hannibal on the head like a dog. 

Then he turns back to Anthony, dismissing Hannibal like he’s just decoration on the wall. He toes off his shoes and begins to unbutton his coat, dropping clothes behind him like breadcrumbs, and Hannibal can practically _taste_ Anthony’s arousal rising in the room.

“Now, then, I think we’ve got all the pleasantries out of the way,” Will says pleasantly. “It’s rather warm tonight – I think we ought to join my husband, as it were. Anthony?”

“But of course,” Anthony replies, already reaching for his pants.

Between the two of them, clothes are shed in short order. Anthony does so rather perfunctorily, hopping to remove his legs out of his pants and pulling his shirt off so fast his hair is ruffled out of its fine state. Will, meanwhile, strips like he is dancing, each patch of skin revealed like gold or diamonds unearthed amongst the dirt, not a single misstep in the entire process, as though he has done this a hundred, a thousand, a million times before, and knows every inch of his body and how it moves.

Hannibal watches Will, of course, but so does Anthony, and the outrage building inside Hannibal’s mouth like saliva grows exponentially when Anthony and Will finally collide like ripples in the water and it is Anthony, not Hannibal, who fits his mouth to Will’s skin.

There are questing mouths and skimming fingers, soft squeaks and gentle murmurs, skin rubbing and bones bumping. If Hannibal were in the bed or in the chair, watching the two of them kiss and rub sinuously against each other, he might be tempted to sketch it and memorize each point of skin touched, so that he could replace Anthony’s touch with his own, but all he can do now is watch and test his restraints and try not to leap up and tear into Anthony’s smug face with his teeth.

Will, for the most part, concentrates on Anthony as if Hannibal does not exist, so Hannibal is not able to express his outrage until Anthony, half of breath and half hard with arousal, kisses his way down Will’s chest and Will finally looks up, eyes lidded, to meet Hannibal’s gaze.

His lips curve up, his smile deep and dark, and Hannibal knows that Will knows that Hannibal has marked Anthony for death.

And then Anthony’s mouth closes around Will, and Will’s eyes close and he winds his hands into Anthony’s hair and Will _moans_ , and Hannibal decides that Anthony will die _screaming_.

Fortunately for Anthony’s continued existence, it does not last long. Will thrusts leisurely into Anthony’s mouth a few times, clearly enjoying himself, but then he gently nudges Anthony away, kissing the confused frown off of his lips when the man rises.

“Are you ready to begin my game, Anthony?” Will says coyly, spinning his web further. “I do think my poor husband is beginning to feel neglected.”

“Surely he would not want you to remain equally neglected,” Anthony remarks.

Will shakes his head. Without even glancing behind him, he takes a few steps back and settles into the plush chair by the bureau, spreading his arms and legs like a king on a golden throne, utterly confident in his power. He tilts his head at Hannibal and his smile becomes truly dark, just a second, like lightning flashing across the sky, and Hannibal can’t hold back the shiver that ripples through him.

Oh, how he knows that smile, and the promises contained therein.

“Put my husband on the bed, will you?” Will says to Anthony, sweet as fine spun sugar. “Drag him, if you like; he likes it rough.”

Whatever reservations Anthony had, he must had shed them with his clothes, for he walks over and hooks his arm around Hannibal’s shoulder without hesitation. He’s stronger than Hannibal expected, like Will, but he doesn’t move with the same grace that Will does. Anthony, Hannibal knows, is no born killer, no dark creature biding his time, no chrysalis to be nurtured and hatched. 

In some ways, it makes it even harder to be scruffed by a naughty puppy by Anthony, but Will is watching, and so Hannibal swallows his complaints and goes.

Will directs Anthony to bend Hannibal over the bed, face on the mattress and legs spread wide, so he cannot see anything and has no leverage. He doesn’t doubt that this is exactly why Will chose this particular position for his game, even if he cannot see where Will is taking them all. 

“Pick that up, please,” Will instructs Anthony, and Hannibal can hear the soft rusting of clothing. “Fold it over. Twice. Lovely.”

“Are you – ”

“Pleasuring myself? Wouldn’t you, if you were in my position?”

Hannibal closes his eyes and swallows. He can just about imagine it: Will, leaning back, planning out his moves seven chess pieces in advance, one hand pointing and directing Anthony and the other slowly gliding up and down to keep the pleasure sparking through his body. No participation at all, just observing Anthony and Hannibal and Anthony-and-Anthony, and making sure they can feel his fingers on their puppet strings.

Anthony says, “If you would let me, I could – ”

“But I don’t want you to,” Will interrupts sweetly. “I want you to watch you first. Both of you. So. The first round of this game will be called Roman-Apologizes-For-His-Sins. Anthony, are you ready?”

There’s a soft _thwap_ as Anthony slaps whatever piece of clothing Will directed him to pick up against his palm. Hannibal isn’t a fool; there’s only so many things that make that kind of sound. A part of the roadmap Will is traveling unravels for Hannibal to see, and he shifts against the bed without thinking, so he misses Anthony’s response.

“Well, my darling husband clearly is ready,” Will says, laughing quietly. “Remember, he likes it rough, Anthony, so don’t hold back.”

“How many?”

“Hmm. Let’s say ten, to start?”

The first strike from the belt takes Hannibal by surprise, if only because he hasn’t undergone corporeal punishment in years, and back then it had mostly been rulers on knuckles. This is very different now, with his beloved directing his doppelganger to punish him as he lies naked on his own bed. It’s a delicious sort of pain that he can see will slowly transform into the pain that wobbles between agonizing and addictive, and he has no idea what his threshold will be. He could block it out, of course – wade into his mind palace and let the strikes blur together, but Hannibal would never refuse the pain Will deigns to grant him, even at another’s hand.

And besides, Will would certainly not take it well if he did catch Hannibal floating away.

The second strike lands, and then the third, and then the fourth, and then the fifth. The room begins to grow warm and the pain begins to snowball. Anthony is strong, even if unskilled with dispensing this kind of punishment, and Hannibal is sure he will be feeling the effects for some time.

After the tenth strike, Anthony pauses. “More?” he asks demurely of Will.

“Most certainly. He isn’t sorry yet.”

Anthony strikes Hannibal for ten more times, and then ten more times, and then ten more. Hannibal can hear the way Anthony is slightly out of breath, but it’s almost drowned out by the throbbing sensation consuming Hannibal’s body, the pain that rises and falls with each strike, unending like waves upon a peach, until he is sure that he sweating and red as an apple. 

Yet Will does not relent and does not hesitate. He continues to fondle himself and watch and demand ten more, unyielding, until it finally dawns upon Hannibal that Will must want _something_.

With the pain clouding his mind, he can barely muster the brainpower to remain their cover names, but it doesn’t matter; as soon as he draws breath and makes to speak, Will intercedes.

“If you’re planning to ask me when I will stop,” Will says, almost idly, “there’s no point. I don’t plan to stop, Roman. If the belt breaks, I will get a spoon from the kitchen. If the spoon breaks, I will fetch the cutting board. If the cutting board breaks, I will find something else. You owe me, and you are not forgiven. Besides . . . Anthony doesn’t mind, does he?”

Whatever Anthony says is lost on Hannibal, but it must be affirmative; Hannibal can smell the scent of his arousal. 

Anthony hits him again, and again, and again, varying his blows in strength and timing and placement, so that Hannibal cannot brace himself. And at this point, he is so bruised that there is nowhere that does _not_ sting whenever the belt lands, and he imagines it’s only time before the skin breaks and Hannibal scents blood to go with arousal.

It’s not quite what Hannibal expected – but then again, he had not expected Will to send an orderly to slit his wrists and loop a noose over his head, either. For all that Will accused him of killing sadistically, he can’t help but think that Will shares in that streak.

“More?” Anthony asks, an indeterminable amount of time later.

Hannibal winces. The very brush of air from Anthony moving and speaking makes pain spark like fireworks. 

“Yes,” Will says, still cool as ice. “He owes me, and he is not forgiven.”

The next strike is painful, to be sure, but Hannibal barely registers it. Will had said those words in a very particular way, and if there’s one thing Hannibal knows almost better than himself, it’s that Will never says things he doesn’t mean. Sometimes his words are impulsive or biting, but they are always things he means, especially when it comes to Hannibal. And if Will thinks they have a debt that is not yet forgiven, well . . . 

_This is a pretty crappy apology, Hannibal,_ Will had said to Hannibal, as he surveyed the wrecked kitchen and bleeding Jack. 

All at once, Hannibal knows what Will wants, and as soon as Anthony pauses to take a breath, Hannibal seizes the opportunity. 

“Lee?”

“I don’t want to hear – ”

“Lee, I am sorry,” Hannibal forces out hurriedly. He could probably take more strikes, of course, but he’s rather afraid of where Will might turn Anthony’s belt if he begins bleeding. Already he is not looking forward to sitting down for the next few weeks. “I was wrong, and I hurt you, and I am _sorry_.”

For a long moment, there is only silence. Well, silence from Will; Anthony is still sweating and breathing hard. 

Then he hears the creak of furniture as Will leans back – Hannibal imagines that he has lounged back, judge and jury and executioner in one, contemplating Hannibal’s rather bruised behind and wondering whether to choose mercy or angry. Selfishly, he rather hopes for Will’s mercy, even if he knows that Will’s game may not yet be finished, and his mercy might be even harder to bear than his anger.

Will lets out a long breath and says, “Enough, Anthony. You can put that down now.”

The belt drops to the floor with a clatter. Anthony seems relieved; perhaps he does not have the sadistic streak like Will. Or perhaps he is merely impatient for other kinds of sweat-inducing endeavors, for he says, in a voice soaked with arousal, “Are we moving onto the next part of the game, then, Lee?”

“Hmm, yes, I think it’s about time. You’ve done us a great favor, after all. Hasn’t he, my darling?”

Hannibal shifts his feet in place, hissing lowly at the pain. “Yes,” he says with great difficulty, “he has.”

“And he should be rewarded, shouldn’t he?” Without even waiting for an answer, Will shifts and must point at something, because Anthony starts moving with eagerness. “Lube and condoms are in that drawer. The next round of this game will be called Anthony-Gets-To-Come. Anthony, are you ready?”

Anthony curses, fumbling and dropping something. From the sound, Hannibal deduces it must be the lube. Either way, he quickly recovers, because within a few moments Hannibal can hear the sound of the condom being unrolled and the lube being squeezed out. 

“Remember,” Will says, “he likes it rough.”

Anthony and Hannibal both freeze. It’s not that Hannibal wanted Anthony to get his grubby hands on Will, but the alternative is of course . . . Well. There really only is one alternative then.

“Are you sure, Lee?” Anthony asks.

Hannibal can only imagine the dark smile that spreads across Will’s face, for he can see the way Anthony shivers in the corner of his eye. Oh, yes, Will has certainly crafted a truly punishing plan to relieve his anger at Hannibal. 

The chair creaks as Will shifts his weight, probably leaning forward. “Anthony, darling,” Will says sweetly with a core of steel, “perhaps I wasn’t clear: I want you to spread my husband’s legs and lube him up and shove yourself inside. I want you to put your back into it, just as you did with the belt, until he tastes you in his throat.” He pauses. “Oh, and until you come.”

Heat ripples through Hannibal. His darling Will certainly knows how to push a man’s buttons, especially one panting and hard and ready to come.

It seems to solve Anthony’s qualms too, because without hesitation, he walks over to Hannibal and does exactly as Will commanded, and they both groan loud and long when, finally, Anthony slides deep inside. Anthony waits for the barest second, just long enough for Hannibal to curl his fingers into the sheets, before he pulls out and begins a steady, punishing rhythm that sends sparks of pain and arousal flying up Hannibal’s spine. The bed even shakes from the force of it, and Hannibal thinks that it’s a pity that Anthony will die, because he would surely give plenty of future bedfellows a great deal of pleasure. 

“Yes, just like that,” Will purrs. He must still be jerking off, because the slick sound of sweat and flesh is too loud to just be Anthony pummeling into Hannibal. “Doesn’t he feel lovely, Anthony? So warm and tight, after all those strikes.”

“I can see why you got hitched to him,” Anthony grunt outs in between thrusts. “God, I’m so glad that I met you.”

“Keep going,” Will laughs, “we are not finished with you yet, Anthony. Go on – come inside him. I know you want to.”

Like a helpless puppet, Anthony does. Hannibal can feel how he stiffens and fills the condom, and more importantly how he slows to a stop and tightens his hands over Hannibal’s hips until he has bruises to match the welts on his backside. They are not marks Hannibal wants, but he knows better to protest.

Just as he knows better than to protest when Anthony pulls out and staggers backwards, depriving Hannibal of the stimulation that had previously been nicely driving him to climax.

And then, just like that, they’re back to where they began: Will silent, Anthony out of breath, and Hannibal in a lot of pain.

Eventually, Anthony blows out a long breath and says, “Goddamn, Lee. What do you have planned next?”

“Just one more round and we’ll be done,” Will answers. “Get my husband up and sitting on the bed facing me, will you? He can watch, for this next part, if he behaves.”

Once again, Hannibal submits to being manhandled. It’s actually worse this time, since Anthony wrestles him to sit on the bed instead of allowing him to gingerly rest his weight down, and Hannibal has to close his eyes as the pain goes up sharply as he puts his full weight against his undeniably sore behind. The smugly aroused look on Anthony’s face when he collects himself enough to open his eyes does not help at all.

But on the bright side, now he can see Will. Will is still in his chair, resplendent in his nakedness and leaning back like he is seated on a throne, and he is still gently moving his hands over where he is hard and wanting. 

“The final round of this game will be called Lee-Gets-To-Come,” Will says lazily. “Anthony, are you ready?”

“Absolutely,” Anthony breathes.

And just like that, Anthony is crossing the room and making space for himself at Will’s feet like he belongs there. It’s enough to make Hannibal bristle as Anthony fits his mouth to Will like a priest beginning worship at an altar, but Will snaps his eyes up and his gaze freezes Hannibal in place, so he swallows his anger and his complaints and watches.

Watches, as Anthony draws sweet whimpers out of Will.

Watches, as Anthony makes Will tremble and shiver and shake.

Watches, as Anthony feasts upon Will until he finally brings a beautiful climax out of his beloved, one that makes Will throw his head back and moan to the heavens. 

For one moment – one moment – Hannibal thinks about getting up, and wrapping his hands around Anthony, and tearing out his throat with his teeth for daring to take Hannibal’s rightful place by Will. 

But only one. After all, he is still in a _great_ deal of pain.

Afterwards, Anthony slouches to the ground, wiping at his mouth and breathing hard. Will gifts him with a tender pat on the cheek and then rises to his feet. He twirls a finger as he strides forward, and Hannibal obediently swivels as much as he can on the bed, not bothering to hold back the hiss of pain at the friction on his welts. Will’s responding laugh is low and dark and satisfied, but he makes no comment. 

“The guest bedroom is made up, if you would like to use it, Anthony,” Will says, swiftly jerking at the various knots binding Hannibal’s arms. “Unless you need to leave?”

“Well, if you’re offering,” Anthony replies.

Will pulls the rope away, coiling it over one hand. His movements are practiced and methodical, and Hannibal is struck by realization that Will is very familiar with knots, probably from his youthful years around boats, and used that knowledge to bind Hannibal. Hannibal is not inexperienced at restraints, of course, but rope used on him is new, to say the least.

“But of course,” Will tells Anthony. “To offer less would be rude. My husband will cook you breakfast, as well, if you can spare the time tomorrow – he has certainly earned it, hasn’t he, darling?”

Hannibal works his jaw. If he were to be honest, he would rather make Anthony for breakfast than cook for him, but he is not foolish enough to go against what Will wants, and his arms are still regaining sensation, so he is no shape to take Anthony down anyways. So Hannibal merely demurs, “As my husband wishes.”

That must satisfy Anthony; with a jaunty little wave and kiss to Will, he gathers up his clothing and strides out, whistling to himself.

Will doesn’t seem to notice at all. He appears to have disregarded Anthony as completely as he was disregarding Hannibal, focused instead on the belt bound around Hannibal’s neck. He unbuckles the belt with a flourish, and Hannibal has to bite back the sudden urge to beg Will to leave it.

Not that it really matters with Will, of course. When Hannibal turns around, rubbing his arms and wiping away saliva from his mouth, he finds a very knowing look in Will’s eyes.

“Did you like this?” Will asks, hefting the belt. “And here I thought you’d be dying to be released.”

Hannibal shrugs. “I would bear anything you give me.”

Even after Hannibal’s apology, some tension had still lived in Will’s shoulders and spine; with those words, he turns soft and warm, like ice left too long on the counter. He leans his face against Hannibal and nudges his chin like a dog, as though cautious of his welcome, and so Hannibal reaches up and hugs him close.

Will laughs. “Maybe I should’ve had Anthony whip you more.”

“I would have taken it.”

“Even if I made you bleed?”

“Even then.”

“You’re so . . . you,” Will sighs. “Come on, get on the bed. I bought some cream when I went bar-hopping; you’ll be glad of it in the morning.”

Hannibal obediently draws his legs up and scoots back. A better position would be to lie on his back, but he cannot bear to let Will out of his sight, and so he lies on his side and contentedly watches Will, naked and unashamed, digging through his coat until he comes out with a small bottle of cream. Will gives him a look when he realizes what position Hannibal is lying in, but he does not comment upon it; he merely opens the bottle and smears some cream onto his hand.

“You’ll be very, very sore tomorrow,” Will observes.

“And you’ll enjoy it.”

“Yes, I will,” Will says without an ounce of regret. “You were so rude, Hannibal. You deserved it.”

“Hmm.” Hannibal closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of Will touching him again, even though it also brings him pain. “Will you be joining me or sleeping with that thing?”

“Hannibal.”

“Will.”

“You jealous psychopath,” Will sighs. “Yes, I’ll be sleeping with you tonight. Now shut up and let me finish.”

* * *

Hannibal wakes up early the next morning. He is usually an early riser, so his internal clock wakes up, but the dull radiating pain in his backside certainly adds a new flavor. It’s manageable, of course – Hannibal has a high pain tolerance – but Hannibal knows that he won’t be able to move at all for the next few weeks without bearing the pain from Will’s fury, and it is delicious.

Will himself is asleep, snoring with his mouth open against the bed. He’s even drooling a little.

Hannibal leans down and kisses him, heart overflowing with love, and then slides out of the bed and begins to root around for clothing. Will did promise their guest breakfast, after all.

To his surprise, Anthony wanders in fairly early in the process, when Hannibal has only just finished setting out his ingredients and is beginning to crack the eggs. He pauses, visibly taken aback at the large spread, and then heads with single-minded determination to the coffee maker, and Hannibal is pleased to see that that he adds enough for all three of them.

“Good morning,” Anthony volunteers, after a long moment, as if it took the smell of coffee to wake him up. 

Hannibal inclines his head. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby. That bed is very comfortable.”

“I’m glad to hear.”

Anthony winks, retrieving his cup of coffee and blowing on it. “And of course your husband tired me out. Well, both of us, I’d wager.”

“I’m used to my husband’s appetites,” Hannibal says coolly.

“I’m not insulting him,” Anthony says, “or you. Merely stating the obvious. You can’t tell me it wasn’t a relief to slip into dreamland and put off feeling the burn for a few hours.”

“Perhaps for you,” is all Hannibal says.

“Hmm. Do you think . . . Do you think he’d be interested in a . . . repeat performance, as it were?”

Hannibal’s instinct is to say no, mostly because he’d rather have to dismember Anthony with his bare hands than suffer his touch again. But there are some things that cannot be decided alone, as Will has made very clear, so Hannibal just replies, “That would be up to my husband.”

Anthony seems to take the veiled hint, because he swallows a large sip of coffee and wanders to the nearest seat in silence. Aside from assisting in shifting things to make room as Hannibal begins to fill the table with food, he offers no more commentary, and Hannibal makes sure that he walks steadily and without a limp whenever he sees Anthony’s eyes focused upon him, greedy and sly.

Will eventually wanders in right on time, when Hannibal is plating the last batch of eggs. He is yawning and his curls are askew and he is wearing nothing but Hannibal’s pants, and Hannibal gives in to the urge to catch him in one arm and kiss him. He is gratified when Will makes a soft noise of surprise and melts against him, returning the kiss, not even seeming to notice Anthony watching until the man gives a soft wolf-whistle.

“Well, now that you two lovebirds are both here, can we dig in?” Anthony says.

Will slips into a chair. “We wouldn’t want to exclude my husband, now would we?” he says. “After all the work he did. Come, my dear, and join us. Although, Anthony – ”

“Yes?”

“I must you that nothing my husband makes is vegetarian.”

“Fine with me,” Anthony says, and digs in.

* * *

When they’ve eaten, stuffing their growling bellies to the very top until nothing but crumbs remain, Anthony wanders off to gather his things. Will stays behind, still sipping his coffee, and watches placidly as Hannibal begins the arduous task of washing up.

After a few moments, when he is sure Anthony is out of earshot, Hannibal clears his throat. 

He hears Will turn to him, cool as ever. “Yes?”

“He asked me whether or not you would consider a . . . repeat performance,” Hannibal says.

Will hums. Very slowly, he blows on his coffee, takes another sip, and swallows. Smiling, he asks, “And what did you tell him, my dear?”

“That it would be up to you.”

Will’s smile grows, but not wider, like most people. His smile grows teeth and fangs, deep and dark, the kind that promises pain and sly words. He takes another sip of coffee. “Did you know that Anthony used to work as a teaching assistant?” Will says instead.

“Oh?”

“Yes, he was telling me about it when I met him. It seems he is in town to attend a lecture by a certain Dr. Roman Fell. Apparently, he used to TA for him in Cambridge.”

Hannibal pauses. Rewinds the sentence. Slowly lowers the dish in his hands. “And you brought him here.”

“Lee Fell, Lydia Fell,” Will says airily, “what’s the difference?” 

Hannibal refrains from pointing out the obvious, which is that Anthony is sure to know that Hannibal is not, in fact, Dr. Fell and that Will is not the lovely Mrs. Fell. There is only so much that can be attributed to distant memories, after all. For Will to know this and yet bring Anthony back anyways . . .

“Did you tell him who I was?”

“But of course. It would be rude to ask him to come to a house and play with people he knew nothing about, after all.”

Hannibal tilts his head to the side. Will had imbued every single word of his with meaning, to say nothing of the way he is unblinkingly holding eye contact with Hannibal right now. Hannibal had thought he had put together Will’s plan, ending with reconciliation after Hannibal was thoroughly punished and apologized – in front of a stranger, no less – but Will’s demeanor right now is that of a patient predator, waiting for the prey to realize it is hopeless trapped. It tells Hannibal that he is still missing _something_ and Will is waiting for him to catch up.

So Hannibal hums and starts to reassemble the pieces. 

He had brought Anthony back late at night, when likely it would be too dark for anyone to see and remember their faces. He had done so even after knowing that Anthony would know they were not Mr. and Mrs. Fell. He had let Anthony see Hannibal vulnerable and in pain, even though Will is generally too possessive to allow that, and furthermore, allowed Anthony to touch him and kiss him and suck him off, even though Hannibal is generally too possessive to allow that.

And, perhaps most importantly: _I’m going to go out,_ Will had said, _and I’m going to enjoy hunting myself, and meanwhile you’re going to kneel there and wait for me._ Will had specifically said hunting, even though he had returned only mildly drunk and with no drops of blood or scent of violence upon his person.

Hunting.

Abruptly, the puzzle reforms. Hannibal had thought it a picture of revenge and humiliation and painful education, but now he sees that there is another side to it. A hunt for a hunt. Even Steven, as it were.

Hannibal opens his eyes and finds Will right in front of him, casually invading his space, smelling of Hannibal’s shampoo and Hannibal’s cologne and Hannibal’s clothing. His eyes are heavy lidded with satisfaction, because he probably saw Hannibal putting the pieces together with each flicker of his face.

“There we go,” Will says softly. “Took you long enough.”

Hannibal takes in a deep breath, tasting the spice of Will’s arousal and the beat of his heart and the warmth of his skin. He can already feel his heart starting to race in preparation for the upcoming hunt, but he is not so impulsive or foolish this time.

This time, he asks for permission.

“May I hunt, husband?” Hannibal asks.

Will grins, teeth sharp and proud, and nods. “I brought him back just for you,” Will murmurs. “Tear him apart, Hannibal.”

Hannibal has no recollection of kissing Will, or moving past him, or zeroing in on the sounds of Anthony rummaging around the apartment, but he must do all these things, for he blinks and finds himself standing right behind Anthony, the taste of Will upon his lips and the cologne of Anthony in his nose. The man in question is examining Hannibal’s phone, brows furrowed as he battles the password lock.

Hannibal says, “That’s rather rude of you, Anthony,” and dashes the closest figurine against Anthony’s head. 

Anthony falls to the ground, gasping and whimpering, clutching at his bleeding face. Gone is the suave, confident, sassy man who lashed Hannibal with his own belt and smugly feasted upon Will – now all Hannibal sees and smells and tastes is _fear_ , pure and potent.

“You – you,” Anthony stammers, pushing frantically with his legs in an attempt to reach the door. “You’re not – you’re not Dr. Fell.”

Will snorts from the doorway. “What gave it away?” he mocks, settling primly on the sofa with the same arrogant air as when he surveyed Anthony beating Hannibal black and blue. 

Anthony’s eyes dart to him. He stretches an arm out, pleading, “Lee – Lee, please – ”

“My name isn’t Lee, Mr. Dimmond.”

“Then – then whoever you are – please – please – ”

Will tilts his head, and then focuses his gaze on Hannibal. It’s wonderful to see him so casually dismiss Anthony. “He was rude indeed, to search through your phone and try to find out who you were,” Will comments. “And what do we do to rude people, Hannibal?”

Hannibal leans down, grasps Anthony’s head firmly, and delights in the pure fear that turns his face pale as snow and his scent sour as rhubarb. Honestly, if anything, Anthony should be grateful, for Will allowed him to live much longer than Hannibal would have, if given the choice. And Hannibal will grant him a faster death, seeing as he is lacking in his preferred instruments. 

“Good-bye, Mr. Dimmond,” Hannibal says cheerfully. “It was an honor for the Graham-Lecter household to host you.”

And then he yanks up and snaps Anthony’s neck.

Afterwards, Hannibal pushes himself to his feet. The adrenaline rush is truly something; Hannibal is not unused to the high that comes with proving oneself a superior being, but there is still a different flavor to this – to hunting in tandem with Will, to tormenting his prey in tandem with Will, to snuffing out the life of a pig with Will’s agreement. It’s beyond anything Hannibal could have imagined, back in those years before Will when he imagined a long, solitary life of hunting in Baltimore. How sad of a life that would have been, Hannibal thinks.

He wipes his hands onto Anthony’s clothing and turns to face Will, and raises an eyebrow when he realizes Will has wormed a hand into his pants and is coaxing himself to hardness.

“Now that,” Will says, before Hannibal can comment, “is what me _observing things_ looks like, Hannibal. Do you want me to participate now?”

Hannibal swallows hard. He can barely imagine what Will participating might look like, but that doesn’t mean he is reluctant to see it. On the contrary, he imagines it will leave him trembling even more than he was last night, beaten within an inch of his life by a total stranger for Will to watch and command and enjoy.

Slowly, he nods.

Will unzips his pants and inches it down, but only to his knees. Then he spreads his arms and rests them on the back of the couch, grinning like a cat that has got the cream. His pose is the picture of lazy indulgence, like he hasn’t a care in the world, when really they both are meant to go to the lecture Hannibal is giving in an hour or two. 

“Strip. And then come here,” Will coaxes, but there is an undeniable command laced within the syllables, and Hannibal hastens to obey, shedding his clothes in a hasty but neat pile. When he makes to settle on the floor, Will shakes his head, and when he goes to settle beside Will, Will kicks him lightly in the ankle.

So instead he settles on Will’s lap, feeling strangely off-balance, even if Will shows no trouble with supporting his weight.

“Now then,” Will says, “you killed Professor Sogliato about ten minutes or so into dessert. So in the interest of fairness, you now have ten minutes to come.”

He pauses, as Hannibal makes to lift himself and realign himself with where Will is obviously indicating, and taps Hannibal on the thigh. Hannibal stops immediately, thighs trembling, the tip of Will just teasing at where he is still sore and yet still so wanting, and waits, because he knows better than to act without permission.

“You come on me,” Will tells him, “or not at all. No hands allowed.”

“ . . . And if I do not?” Hannibal asks, because he must.

Will shrugs. “Then you don’t come at all. That’s not my problem. I came last night, down a very lovely throat, after all. Besides, you have a lecture to give. Blue balls might make your presentation actually interesting instead of the usual dry nonsense.”

“Will – ”

“Tick tock, tick tock,” Will taunts. “Your ten minutes start now.”

* * *

Hannibal does manage to come, but just barely. 

Will laughs at him when he staggers off Will’s lap, still wincing, and then makes him return and sit at Will’s feet so Will can finish all over his face and chest.

They shower separately and still barely manage to make the lecture on time.

* * *

The next time Hannibal wakes up, there is a collar belted around his throat. It’s soft and clearly meant as a collar, for it sits well on around his neck and there are no sharp edges like when Will took a knife to his belt. When he traces his fingers around it, he finds a tiny padlock holding it fastened tight, and it’s far too tiny for Hannibal to even consider picking it.

When Will rises, Hannibal tells him, “Dr. Fell did not wear a collar.”

Will shrugs and yawns and crooks a finger, and Hannibal obediently slides across the bed and spreads his legs for Will to slide deep inside where Hannibal is still wet from last night’s rather rigorous activities. 

“That sounds like a problem for you,” Will tells him in between thrusts. “Use that big brain of yours to think of a reason, Dr. Lecter, because it won’t be coming off.”

“Not even when I bathe?”

Will wraps a hand around Hannibal’s throat and presses his face into the bed, not pausing in the slightest, even as Hannibal struggles to catch his breath against the sheets. He leans close and purrs, “Not so long as you live. You seem like the person who needs a constant reminder that you belong to me. So. Get used to it.”

And well, that suits Hannibal just fine.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Not many men are willing to let her peg them, so when Henry – face full of curls, gorgeous blue eyes, and delicious Southern drawl – sidles up to her and whispers that he’s looking for someone to whip _and_ peg his husband, she’s down for it. They leave the bar giggling like drunken teenagers, although she sobers up real quick when she sees the gorgeous apartment that he apparently owns with his husband.

And when she sees the husband in question, well. Her jaw, which was on the floor, sinks all the way to earth’s crust.

Henry kicks off his shoes and strides over to the most handsome man she’s ever seen, who is currently kneeling on the floor with his arms crossed behind his back. He’s naked, but more startling is the fact that he has a bright red ball gag in his mouth and a collar around his throat. 

Casually as anything, Henry digs his fingers into the collar and yanks his husband up, ignoring his grunt of protest. Henry practically throws him onto the bed, facedown, which is when she realizes that his husband’s arms are actually bound between his back, encased in a single sheath of some kind of shiny black material. Henry kicks his husband’s legs apart, condescendingly pats his backside, and then looks at her.

“The belt’s over there,” he says. “Go on, pick it up.”

She turns her head and picks up the belt, and then turns back around and chokes, for Henry is now stripping. He’s just as handsome as his husband, or maybe even more. Part of it must be the sheer confidence with which he strides around, like he’s in total control and owns everything and everyone, but she’s sure many of her friends would willingly tap that too.

Henry settles in a chair, lounging like a king on his throne, naked as the day he was born, and commands, “Give him ten to start.”

She swallows hard and walks over to the bed. The husband is lying there, quiet as a mouse, only the rise and fall of his chest to prove he is still alive. Up close, she can see that his backside is faintly yellow and orange, and realizes that he must have been spanked or hit before. It actually settles her somewhat, to know that they must regularly engage in this kind of play.

“And then what?” she asks Henry.

Henry smiles, dark as the blackest night. “And then keep going,” he says casually. “My husband was _very_ naughty last night, and he’s going to take his blows like a good boy until he’s earned his forgiveness. Don’t worry,” he adds, “you can peg him to your heart’s desire afterwards.”

“Won’t he be sore?”

“Trust me,” Henry replies, “he likes it rough. Are you ready?”

She nods. Then she takes a deep breath, and raises the belt high, and sends it crashing down upon his husband’s backside.

“One down,” Henry remarks over his husband’s cry of pain, “and so many more to go.”

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Whenever Hannibal wants to spice up their lives, he goes and kills someone without consulting Will, so Will goes and hunts down a rando (usually someone who looks similar to himself) to spank/punish/torture Hannibal. And then they make up over the person's corpse. Usual murder husband stuff. 
> 
> If you enjoyed, please check out the rest of the fics for [Sub Hannibal Week collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SubHannibal2020). Or come give us a shout at the [Sub Hannibal discord](https://twitter.com/SubHannibal/status/1297674812450648070) we are always looking for new friends. Or was it fresh dinner?
> 
> Find me @ Telegram/Discord as TheSilverQueen : [Pillowfort as TheSilverQueen](https://www.pillowfort.social/thesilverqueen) : [Tumblr as thesilverqueenlady](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com) : [Twitter as silverqueenlady](https://twitter.com/silverqueenlady) : [NewTumbl as thesilverqueen](https://thesilverqueen.newtumbl.com/) : [Dreamwidth as thesilverqueenlady](https://thesilverqueenlady.dreamwidth.org/)


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